“How do you like being a celebrity?” I kidded Kate once we were seated.
“Hate it.
Hate it,
” She said with her teeth clenched tightly. “Listen, Alex, can we get blotto drunk tonight?” Kate suddenly asked. “I’d like
a tequila, a mug of beer, and some brandy,” she told Verda. The waitress-philosopher grimaced and wrinked her nose at the
order.
“I’ll have the same,” I said. “When in collegeville.”
“This definitely
isn’t
therapy,” Kate said to me as soon as Verda departed. “We’re just going to bullshit some tonight.”
“That sounds like therapy,” I said to her.
“If it is, then we’re
both
on the couch.”
We talked about a lot of unrelated things for the first hour or so: cars, rural versus big-city hospitals, slavery, childrearing,
doctors’ salaries and the health-care crisis, rock ‘n’ roll lyrics versus blues lyrics, a book we’d both enjoyed called
The English Patient.
We had been able to talk to each other right from the beginning. Almost from that first moment at University Hospital, there
had been some kind of bright sparks between us.
After the first blitzkrieg round of drinks, we settled into slow-sipping—beer in my case, the house wine in Kate’s. We got
a little buzzed, but nothing too disastrous. Kate was right about one thing. We definitely needed some kind of release from
the stress of the Casanova case.
Around our third hour in the bar, Kate told a true story about herself that was almost as shocking to me as her abduction.
Her brown eyes were wide as she spun her tale. Her eyes sparkled in the bar’s low light. “Let me tell you this one time now.
Southerners love to tell a story, Alex. We’re the last safekeepers of America’s sacred oral history.”
“Tell me the story, Kate. I love to listen to stories. So much so that I made it my job.”
Kate put her hand on top of mine. She took a deep breath. Her voice got soft, very quiet. “Once upon a time, there was the
McTiernan family of Birch. This was a happy group of campers, Alex. Tight-knit, especially the girls: Susanne, Marjorie, Kristin,
Carole Anne, and Kate. Kristin and I were the youngest
goils
—twins. Then there was Mary, our mother, and Martin, our father. I’m not going to say too much about Martin. My mother made
him leave when I was four. He was very domineering and could be as mean as a stepped-on copperhead sometimes. To hell with
him. I’m way past my father by now.”
Kate went on for a bit, but then she stopped and looked deeply into my eyes. “Did anybody ever tell you what a terrific,
terrific
listener you are? You make it seem like you’re interested in everything I have to say. That makes me want to talk to you.
I have
never
told this whole story to anyone, Alex.”
“Well, I am interested in what you have to say. It makes me feel good that you’re sharing this with me, that you trust me
enough.”
“I trust you. It’s not a very happy story, so I must trust you a lot.”
“I have that sense,” I told Kate. It struck me again how very beautiful her face was. Her eyes were very large and lovely.
Her lips weren’t too full, or too thin. I kept being reminded why Casanova had chosen her.
“My sisters, my mother, they were so great when I was growing up. I was their little slave,
and
I was their pet. There wasn’t much money coming into the house, so there was always too much to do. We canned our own veggies,
jelly, and fruit. We took in washing and ironing. Did our own carpentry, plumbing, auto repair. We were lucky: we liked one
another. We were always laughing and singing the latest hit song off the radio. We read a lot, and we’d talk about everything
from abortion rights to recipes. A sense of humor was mandatory in our house.
‘Don’t be so serious’
was the famous line there.”
Finally, Kate told me what had happened to the McTiernan family. Her story; her secret came out in an agitated burst that
darkened her face.
“Marjorie got sick first. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Margie died when she was twenty-six. She already had three
kids. Then, in order, Susanne, my twin Kristin, and my mother died. All of breast or ovarian cancer, That left Carole Anne,
me, and my father. Carole Anne and I joke that we inherited my father’s snarly mean streak, so we’re destined to die of nasty
heart attacks.”
Kate suddenly swung her head down and to one side. Then she looked back up at me. “I was going to say, I don’t know why I
told you that. But I do know. I like you. I want to be your friend. I want you to be my friend. Is that possible?”
I started to say something about how I felt, but Kate stopped me. She put the tips of her fingers on my lips. “Don’t be sentimental
right now. Don’t ask me any more about my sisters right now. Tell me something you don’t
ever
tell other people. Tell me quick now, before you change your mind. Tell me one of your big secrets, Alex.”
I didn’t think about what I was going to say. I just let it come out. It seemed fair after what Kate had told me. Besides,
I wanted to share something with her, I wanted to confide in Kate, at least see if I could.
“I’ve been screwed up ever since my wife, Maria, died,” I told Kate McTiernan, one of my secrets, one of the things I keep
bottled inside. “I put on clothes every morning, and a sociable face, and my six-gun some days… but I feel hollow most of
the time. I got into a relationship after Maria, and it didn’t work out. It failed in a spectacular fashion. Now I’m not ready
to be with anyone again. I don’t know if I ever will be.”
Kate peered into my eyes. “Oh, Alex, you’re wrong. You are so ready,” she told me without any doubt in her eyes or her voice.
Sparks.
Friends.
“I’d like us to be friends, too,” I finally told her. It was something I rarely said, and never this quickly.
As I stared across the table at Kate, stared over the glowing wick of a dwindling candle, I was reminded of Casanova again.
If nothing else, he was a very good judge of a woman’s beauty and character. He was just about perfect.
T
HE HAREM cautiously shuffled toward a large living area at the end of a winding hallway inside the mysterious, loathsome house.
The place had two floors. On the lower one, there was only a single room. Upstairs, there were as many as ten.
Naomi Cross walked cautiously among the women. They had been told to go to the common room. Since she had been there, the
number of captives had ranged from six to eight. Sometimes a girl left, or
disappeared,
but there always seemed to be a new one to take her place.
Casanova was waiting for them in the living room. He had on another of his masks. This one was handpainted with white and
bright green streaks. Festive.
A party face.
He wore a gold silk robe and was naked underneath it.
The room was large and tastefully furnished. The floor was covered with an oriental rug. The walls were off-white and freshly
painted.
“Come in, come in ladies. Don’t be shy. Don’t be bashful,” he said from the back of the room. He had a stun gun and a pistol
and struck a dashing pose.
Naomi imagined that he was smiling behind the mask. More than anything she wanted to see his face, just once, and then obliterate
it forever, shatter it into tiny pieces, grind the pieces into nothing.
Naomi felt her heart skip as she entered the large, attractive sitting room. Her violin was on a table near Casanova. He had
taken her violin and brought it to this awful place.
Casanova was waltzing around the low-ceilinged room like the host of a sophisticated costume party. He knew how to be classy,
even gallant. He carried himself with confidence.
He lit a woman’s cigarette with a gold lighter. He stopped to talk to each of his girls. He touched a bare shoulder, a cheek,
caressed someone’s long blond hair.
The women all looked stunning. They wore their own beautiful clothes, and had carefully applied makeup. The scents of their
perfumes filled the room. If only they could rush him all at once, Naomi thought to herself. There had to be a way to take
Casanova down.
“As some of you may have already guessed,” he raised his voice, “we have a nice surprise for tonight’s festivities. A little
night music.”
He pointed to Naomi, and beckoned her to come forward. He was always careful when he brought them together like this. He had
his gun in hand, holding it casually.
“Please play something for us,” he said to Naomi. “Anything that you’d like. Naomi plays the violin, and very beautifully
I might add. Don’t be shy, dear.”
Naomi couldn’t take her eyes off Casanova. His robe was open so that they could see his nakedness. Sometimes he had one of
them play an instrument, or sing, or read poetry, or just talk about their lives before hell. Tonight it was Naomi’s turn.
Naomi knew that she had no choice. She was determined to be brave, to look confident.
She picked up the violin, her precious instrument, and so many painful memories swept over her.
Brave… confident…,
she repeated inside her head. She’d been doing that since she was a young girl.
As a young black woman she had learned the art of acting poised. She needed all the poise she could muster now.
“I’m going to try to play Bach’s sonata number one,” she quietly announced. “This is the adagio, the first movement. It’s
very beautiful. I hope I can do it justice.”
Naomi shut her eyes as she brought the violin up to her shoulder. She opened her eyes again as she placed her chin on the
rest and slowly began to tune the instrument.
Brave… confident,
she reminded herself.
Then she began to play. It was far from perfect, but it did come from her heart. Naomi’s style had always been personal. She
concentrated more on making music than on her technique. She wanted to cry, but she held back the tears, held everything inside.
Her feelings came out only in the music, the beautiful Bach sonata.
“Brava! Brava!” Casanova shouted as she finished.
The women clapped. That was permitted by Casanova. Naomi stared out at their beautiful faces. She could feel their shared
pain. She wished that she could talk to them. But when he brought them together, it was only to show off his power, his absolute
control over them.
Casanova’s hand moved and lightly touched Naomi’s arm. It was hot, and she felt as if she’d been burned.
“You’ll stay with me tonight,” he said in the softest voice. “That was so beautiful, Naomi.
You
are so beautiful, the most beautiful one here. Do you know that, sweetheart? Of course you do.”
Brave, strong, confident,
Naomi told herself. She was a Cross. She wouldn’t let him see her fear. She would find a way to beat him.
K
ATE AND I were working at her apartment in Chapel Hill. We’d been talking about the disappearing house again, still trying
to figure out that mind-bending mystery. At a little past eight the front doorbell rang. Kate went to see who it was.
I could see her talking to someone, but I couldn’t tell who. My hand went for my revolver, touched the handle. She let the
visitor come inside.
It was Kyle Craig. I was immediately struck by the drawn and somber look on his face. Something must have happened.
“Kyle says he has something you’re going to want to see,” Kate said as she led the FBI man into the living room.
“I tracked you down, Alex. It wasn’t too hard,” Kyle said. He sat on the sofa arm next to me. He looked as if he needed to
sit down.
“I told the hotel desk and the operator where I’d be until nine or so.”
“Like I said, it wasn’t hard. Check out the look on Alex’s face, Kate. Now you see why he’s still a detective. He’s hooked
on The Job, wants to solve all the great puzzles, even the not-so-great ones.”
I smiled, and shook my head. Kyle was partly right. “I love my work,
mostly
because I get to spend time with sophisticated and high-minded individuals like yourself. What’s happened, Kyle? Tell me
right now.”
“The Gentleman made a personal call on Beth Lieberman. She’s dead. He cut off her fingers, Alex. After he killed her, he torched
her studio apartment in West Los Angeles. He set half her building on fire.”
Beth Lieberman hadn’t exactly endeared herself to me, but I was shocked and saddened to hear about her murder. I’d taken Kyle’s
word that she had nothing worth traveling to Los Angeles for. “Maybe he knew there was something in her apartment that needed
to be torched. Maybe she actually had something important.”
Kyle glanced over at Kate again. “You see how good he is? He’s a machine. She
did
have something incriminating,” he said to both of us. “Only she had it on her computer at the
Times.
So now we have it.”
Kyle handed me a long, curling fax. He pointed to some copy at the very bottom of the sheet. The fax was from the FBI’s office
in Los Angeles.
I glanced down the page and read the entry that was underscored.
Possible Casanova!!!
it said.
Very possible suspect.
Dr. William Rudolph. First-class creep.
Home: the Beverly Comstock. Work: Ceders-Sinai Medical Center.
Los Angeles.
“We’ve finally got our break. We’ve got a first-class lead, anyway,” Kyle said. “The Gentleman could be this doctor. This
creep, as she calls him.”
Kate looked at me, then at Kyle. She had told both of us that Casanova might be a doctor.
“Anything else in Lieberman’s notes?” I asked Kyle.
“Not that we’ve been able to find so far,” Kyle said. “Unfortunately, we can’t ask Ms. Lieberman about Dr. William Rudolph,
or why she made the note in her computer. Let me tell you two new theories that are making the rounds with our profilers out
on the West Coast,” Kyle went on. “Are you ready for a little outrageous mind trip, my friend? Some profiler speculation?”
“I’m ready. Let’s hear the latest and greatest theories from FBI West.”